


Green Man

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M, Fourth of July, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Making Out, Partners to Lovers, Romance, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25083460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: Night—true night—takes its time arriving, as thought the sun and the darkness that trails behind it are as languid as all the sticky–warm people moving along the street below. She’s watching the scene with her chin propped on her folded arms as she kneels up on the blanket to peer over the low wall surrounding the rooftop.
Relationships: Kate Beckett & Richard Castle, Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Green Man

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is the 4th of July just after Always (4 x 23)

Night—true night—takes its time arriving, as thought the sun and the darkness that trails behind it are as languid as all the sticky–warm people moving along the street below. She’s watching the scene with her chin propped on her folded arms as she kneels up on the blanket to peer over the low wall surrounding the rooftop. 

They look like they mean to hurry, all those languid people below. She sees children, their tiny forms dashing forward, then darting back to snag at the outstretched hands of their parents, their big brothers and sisters. They tug and stamp their feet. She can hear their high, frustrated little voices, but it’s too hot to hurry and the night is taking its time. 

She doesn’t mind a bit. She sits back on her heels, then sprawls with her arms and legs flung to the far corners of the blanket. Her feet are bare. The tails of her flame-red sleeveless button-down shirt are tied in a knot that rides high as though it is not on speaking terms with the waistband of her tiny frayed jean shorts. 

She is scantily clad. She is in his dreams. 

She laughs up at the streaks of peach, of lavender, of faded denim that arc across the not-quite-dark sky. Her skin is slick with a day roaming the sun-baked streets with her fingers and his, laced together and swinging between them. It is slick with a thunderstorm waiting to be—a thunderstorm that wouldn’t dare show its face until she’s ready for it, hours from now. 

She closes her eyes. She lets the circling feeling of her back against a rooftop take her until she feels like the hands of a clock, like the swinging needle of a compass. She counts the lackadaisical beats of her own heart to a hundred, to two hundred, to three hundred and fifty-six, and then she can’t resist peeking. 

It’s not night yet. The sun has grudgingly gone down at last, but it’s not _dark._ She thinks in tens of minutes it will be. She thinks of her grandfather patiently explaining civil twilight and distracting her with fireflies to while away the time until true night. 

“Nautical twilight by now.” 

She’s been talking to herself. He has caught her talking to herself and if her skin could hold any more heat, she might blush about it. 

He is upside down from her vantage point. He is a surprise, even though she’s been waiting and waiting for him. She has been waiting and waiting for the beer he’s dangling loosely by the neck. She reaches up with greedy hands. He taunts her, pulling it higher, and a blessed cool drop of condensation falls on her bare shoulder. She swears she can hear it hiss as it makes contact. 

“Castle!” She makes her way up on to one _I-mean-business_ elbow, but he’s already dropping beside her. He’s already dragging the icy bottle along a slick path from her shoulder to her fingertips. She’s already relenting. 

“It’s _still_ not dark?” he grouses, even though it _is_ dark, almost. He has to squint at the dial of his watch. She flicks a glance at her own wrist and finds it bare. She battles a secret grin as she pictures it on the nightstand beside his bed. 

“Nautical twilight,” she says smugly. He laughs and bumps her with his shoulder. Their skin sticks for a moment where it makes contact. 

The cold beers go down easy. They go down swiftly, and it turns out that even the rapidly warming glass is relief from the heat, He plays man servant, dragging one bottle down each of her thighs and making her laugh until her ribs ache. He casts the bottles aside when the relief they can offer is exhausted. 

“We can head down,” he offers as he traces the tip of his pinky finger in complicated swirls over the bare skin south of her knotted shirt tails. “A/C and a view from the windows, if it’s too miserable up here.” 

He looms over her, intent on the work of his hands. He looks good enough to eat and she almost says yes. But the sky explodes behind him, just then. It blossoms into white and twinkling pink and silver-green comets. It’s beautiful, and she reaches up to tip his chin toward it. His face lights up, little boy quick. 

“Offer’s off the table.” He pulls her to him. “Fireworks first.” 

“Fireworks first,” she agrees, settling against him. The sky blazes and she swears she can feel the heat sheeting over her skin. She presses close, welcoming the sticky–hot warmth of his body and the night, at long last, on fire. “ _These_ fireworks first.” 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Feeling sad. Missing my imaginary friends. Bemoaning the fact that it’s been a million degrees a million days in a row. 


End file.
